


Woven

by madness_on_the_milano



Series: Nadadel [19]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fundin Was A Hero Of Epic Proportions, Gen, In Which Óin Is Four And A Half Feet Of Angst And Drunkenness, Thorin Is A Loving Cousin, Tipsy Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 08:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14233374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madness_on_the_milano/pseuds/madness_on_the_milano
Summary: Thorin gives Óin a pep talk he didn't know he needed and Glóin makes a discovery.





	Woven

He hasn't seen Thorin in decades. He's still trying to make a connection between the scrawny youth and this muscled stranger when he realises it's beginning to drizzle and he's not let him in. And he's staring at his dark-haired cousin like a lunatic. Mahal knows what he thinks.  
  
"Come in," he says, stepping back.  
  
"Thank you." Thorin says, acting like he hasn't just been gawped at like a curiosity. He steps in and removes his cloak. From upstairs there is a clatter and a shouted mumble of apology. Óin dreads to think what _he_ might be doing, but tries to act nonchalant.  
  
"Where's your brother?" Thorin asks.  
  
"He's..asleep." Óin lies.  
  
Thorin nods his head. "Is he alright?"  
  
"He's not wounded, but it gave him a fright, that's all. He'll be fine." Thorin doesn't smile with his mouth, it seems. He smiles using his eyes, a little spark showing that he thinks of this as good news. "Who is he? The old fellow who tried to get him?"  
  
Thorin pauses. Then, almost carefully, he answers, "We're talking with him now-"  
  
"That's not an answer to my question. Who is he?"  
  
"We believe he's a member of the group who got Bâqil." Thorin says. "We found their symbol by him and the thief." There's a change in Thorin's expression at this. "The thief your brother spent time with."  
  
"I did tell him not to, Thorin. He got so angry he got reckless, so we came to an agreement. He had to stay close to an adult if he did want to meet Fóli. He kept to this rule. I tell you what, it was my fault he got those bruises. I left him by himself." At this, he looks down and away.  
  
"You left him to tie a bootlace. You were a short distance from the temple. There were guardsmen who should have been everywhere. This wasn't your fault. How could you have known?"  
  
"I should have stayed with him!"  
  
"Part of being gêmadad is teaching independence. It never does good to constantly hover. You both thought it was safe. Was it his fault he got found by that pair of scum?"  
  
"You know it wasn't."  
  
"Nor was it yours." Thorin brushes a strand of dark hair from his forehead. "But I know you won't believe that."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Because I'm a big brother too." Thorin says and it takes Óin a while to remember that Thorin had once been an elder of _three._ He shivers and goes to put the kettle on to boil.  
  
"Are you alright? With him - I know I've been..absent."  
  
_'You've_ always _been absent.'_ Óin thinks, but this seems cruel, so he doesn't say it out loud. "Well," he does say. "You're busy, that's all."  
  
"A good king measures his time well. I should know better."  
  
"You can't be a king all the time." Óin says truthfully. "You'd go mad with the stress."  
  
Thorin half-smiles. "I have help with that in the form of our cousin Dwalin." Then he looks somewhat serious. "Are you both well?"  
  
"Aye. Yeah, why wouldn't we be?"  
  
"You've both been alone since your father died."  
  
"So have you and your sister." Óin answers shortly. The last thing he needs is someone prying and finding out about the matters he is lenient on with his nadadith.  
  
Thorin doesn't look impressed. "I was never on my own. You know that."  
  
"We have each other." Óin says. Bitterly, he adds; "And our cousins when they spare themselves."  
  
He sees the guilt and his suspicions that his father's nephews spend the majority of their free time with the prince are confirmed. _'Fine,'_ he thinks crossly to himself. _'Don't think about the sons of the one who raised you after_ your _fathers died. Don't think how difficult it is to take care of someone and try and sort out your own life at the same time.'_  
  
"Do you need them?" Thorin asks softly.  
  
_'Yes.'_ Óin thinks. "No," he answers. "Everything is fine so far."  
  
As if on cue, there is a sudden loud, unmistakable thudding sound of a bookcase falling over.

* * *

  
 It hadn't been that long ago when he'd been able to climb up his bookcase and he'd thought he'd be able to do that now, but the entire thing fell on him.  
  
The shame will live with him forever.  
  
"You are a Dwarf, not a squirrel." Thorin chides lightly, gently brushing a lock of hair back.  
  
"Mmmmm."  
  
Óin, however, has more pressing matters to focus on. He lifts what looks like a small and very old toy box from the floor. "One of our cousins must have hidden this donkey's years ago. I don't remember you or I ever using it. Here, look inside it..Thorin, help me, will you?"  
  
Thorin leaves his side and held lift the bookcase. Glóin tries opening the box. It is stiff and the hinges shriek, but he finally opens the lid just as his brother and cousin replace the bookcase. He frowns in confusion at the contents. Inside are two braids and a handful of other keepsakes. The braids are auburn, one very light, almost peach in colour, the other just bordering on being a chestnut brown. The darker one is of softer hair. He recognises the braiding style.  
  
It is his mother's.

* * *

  
 "Maybe next time, give him a weaker ale."  
  
Óin looks up, startled. "What?"  
  
Thorin, luckily, is only smiling. "I could smell it from him. Summer's Delight, was it?"  
  
Guiltily, he nods. "I only meant to give him one mug.. Don't tell anyone!"  
  
"I won't, I promise." Thorin's hand rests on the latch. "Will you be alright?"  
  
_'No. Stay with us.'_ "Yes. We'll be fine. Keep safe."  
  
Thorin nods and leaves. The soft thudding of his heavy boots soon fade and Óin goes upstairs to find his brother. "You landed us right in it!"  
  
Glóin isn't listening. He's holding two...Well, it's hard to tell what. They look like ropes, but on closer inspection, they're actually little locks of hair twisted into braids. He frowns at the style, reaching for the family braid in his hair. The two braids his brother holds are not the colour of his or Glóin's. The soft auburn holds too much red to be his, and the dark one is too dark to be Glóin's. He sits by him and holds out his palm. Glóin gives them to him and looks in the old toy box.  
Inside is a tiny drawstring purse. Within are two braids, one dark and in their mother's style, the other auburn, in their father's style. They are wound together.  
  
"What in Mahal's name is this?" Óin murmurs.  
  
"Maybe Balin will know."  
  
"You're right, yes. Put them back in the box and we'll show him."  
  
They put away the braids, silently wondering to whom they belonged.  
  
"Maybe the auburn one that Da made belonged to Uncle Fundin." Glóin says.  
  
"No. Da wouldn't have hidden it away. Do you remember, our uncle saved his life as his last actions on this earth?"  
  
"Tell me?" Glóin requests, shaking his arm.  
  
Óin hugs him closer with one arm. " During the Battle of Moria, our father was fighting over his brother. Fundin had been stabbed all the way through his armour, but still fought until he could fight no more. He kept the knife in the wound to try and keep himself alive for longer and barely managed to defend himself, right until an orc succeeded in knocking Da to the ground. Now, Da was a young warrior back then and he had you tucked in his armour because you wanted to help and got hurt-" He lets his eyes travel to the pale scar on his brother's brow briefly and continues. "He was exhausted and the orc took advantage and tried to stab him in the belly with his spear, which was where you were nestled. So, Da grabbed the handle of it, just above the sharpest part and held it off until his entire body trembled in effort. Finally, he knew he could not hold it any longer, so he redirected it to his face. But he forgot he had an elder brother watching the entire fight." Óin pauses. "I don't know if this is true. Da swore it with his own dying breath, but I don't think anyone in our uncle's situation could so much have hobbled, let alone ran, but Uncle Fundin sprinted over, took the knife from his stomach and slit this orc's throat just as Da released the spear."  
  
"I can't imagine Da being a nadadith like me." Glóin says. "And I can't imagine loving someone so much that you're willing to die for them."  
  
"It's easier than you think." Óin says, smoothing his hair. "We all have at least someone we love so much."  
  
"Would Fundin have lived?"  
  
Óin sighs. "I don't know. But big brothers aren't supposed to outlive their little ones." He thinks of Thorin and Frerin and shuts his eyes.  
  
"Do you think we have other siblings?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"The light braid. It could be a mixture of Mammy and Da's colours."  
  
"Hmm. I'm sure they would have told us. Anyway, if we did, where are these brothers or sisters?"  
  
"You're right, I suppose. Anyway, one brother is too many, after all."  
  
Óin tsks and gently pulls his ear. "Don't be bloody cheeky. I'm an excellent brother to you!"  
  
"You're supposed to be teaching me humility!" Glóin protests, poking his shoulder.  
  
"Life is too short for being humble. There's hundreds of people in this world ready to insult you, so you might as well build yourself up!"  
  
Glóin smiles and rests against him. "Nadad," he says, almost thoughtfully. "Who would you die for?"  
  
"You."  
  
Glóin frowns. "I don't want to live in a world without my brother."  
  
"Oh, nadadith." Óin pulls him closer, gently rocking him. "You're my little brother. You're not allowed to outlive me. One day, you will be without me."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because one day, I'm going to be an old grump with grey hair and my time will come to an end. But it won't happen for at least a hundred years."  
  
"Who will love me when you're gone?"  
  
"You'll have lots of people. You'll have your wife, your children, our remaining family.. There will always be love for you as long as you give it."  
  
"I'd hate to be alone, nadadel." Glóin whispers, as though shy to admit it.  
  
"You won't be, little brother. Not for a long time. Think you can put up with your big brother for another century?"  
  
Glóin nods and clings to him. Óin gently rubs his back, occasionally smoothing over auburn waves. "Aye, you daft lump. I'm not a century older now! Come on, help me tidy up these books."  
  
His brother ambles to his feet and passes him books. They've just finished slotting the last books into place when the door opens and they hear the soft rumblings of their cousin's voices. Immediately, Glóin snatches the box and runs out of the room like all the Balrogs of the world are at his heels.  
  
If _only_ he ran like that when it was time to get up.  
  
"-we found this, it's full of hair, maybe Dwalin could use it-"  
  
By the time Óin joins his kin, Balin is hiding a smirk, Dwalin looks outraged and Glóin is oblivious. Everything is normal, it seems.  
  
Óin lightly tugs his ear. "Don't be tactless! Give Balin the box."  
  
Glóin pulls away and hands it over. The box looks even more worn and aged in Balin's hand. He opens it and stares at the contents. Óin swears that he can see recognition in his deep blue eyes.  
  
Dwalin, meanwhile, seems to have forgiven his cousin and has tilted up his chin to examine the bruises. "That bastard. If Mahal takes him tonight, I shan't be sorry. Does it hurt, iraknadadith?"  
  
"No, cousin."  
  
"I can't imagine it does, with the Summer's Delight masking the pain, Óin, son of Gróin!" Balin remarks.  
  
"It was only this once!" Óin protests.  
  
"I'm not saying anything. I just can't _help_ but notice."  
  
"So why did you bring my father's name into it?"  
  
"Trying to get your attention! I can't place these braids, lad. I'll ask Thorin."  
  
"Alright," says Óin. He doesn't quite believe him, and gently pulls his brother's hand. "Go and put the kettle on to boil, hmm?" As soon as he hears his brother's footsteps fade, he looks at his eldest cousin. "Balin, the braids? You know them, I saw it in your eyes."  
  
"Similar colours, that's all."  
  
"To what? They're family braids in my parent's style. Whose are they?"  
  
"I do not know, iraknadadith."  
  
Óin scowls. "Don't treat me like a _boy!_ Tell me who they belonged to! Do we have brothers? Well?"  
  
"No. There's only the two of you being the sons of your father and your mother. I genuinely do not know, cousin."  
  
He doesn't believe him, but Balin can be twice as stubborn as his own brother when he wants to be, so Óin abandons the topic. Dwalin clears his throat. "Would you mind if we stayed tonight? I don't feel comfortable leaving you both alone."  
  
Óin nods. "That's fine, aye. He'd probably feel safer too."

* * *

  
Later on that night after an easy dinner of soup and a laughter-filled few hours of reminiscing, it is just him and Balin. It feels strange to be able to smoke with his cousin and he tells him so.  
  
"Yes, it does! I still remember the day you, my lad, put tea leaves in my pipe to smoke."  
  
"All I remember is the hiding you gave me." Óin says, still slightly resentful of the fact.  
  
_"I_ nearly coughed my lungs out!"  
  
"It hurt!"  
  
"Oh, you survived, you tough young warrior!"  
  
"Only just!"  
  
Balin chuckles and puffs on his pipe some. "So," he says, expelling a small cloud of smoke, "We feel we've been neglectful of you both."  
  
Óin feels the warmth ebb out of him. He shrugs and focuses on his pipe. "It's fine. We're alright."  
  
"That's not my point." Balin places his pipe on the table, tapping out the contents into the fire. "When our father died, yours took us in and raised us, just like you're doing now with your little brother. But he never had to do it alone. And he was a fully grown adult Dwarf - yes, I _know_ you're an adult too, but you're a young adult. _Very_ young. You don't have the experience of childcare your father had. You need a bit more help than you're getting from us."  
  
"Don't take him from me." Óin blurts out. "He's all I have of my parents. Let me keep him, please! I won't let him get in danger again-"  
  
Balin pulls him into a tight hold. He doesn't realise he's trembling until he feels his cousin quiver and tries to calm. Balin rubs his shoulder. "No one will take him from you. That would be unnecessarily cruel! No, you're a good gêmadad, Óin. I don't think you know how well you're doing! I'm sorry I worried you, lad. We just want to help more, because you are our kin."  
  
"You swear you won't take him?"  
  
"On my honour. It's just, with Bâqil and today..we just don't want to risk anything happening to him, you know?"  
  
Óin shakes his head. "Thorin said it wasn't my fault."  
  
"He was right. It was not your fault or anyone else's apart from those nasty sods." Balin pulls back and keeps a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Do you have work tomorrow, cousin?"  
  
Óin nods, sighing. He doesn't want to go now, but it's important to not miss a day if he can help it. By October, he will be fully trained as a healer. Then, hopefully he will have more time. Balin squeezes his shoulder.  
  
"It will be fine. Hmm.. I'm reviewing several long and boring documents tomorrow and Dwalin is going to help Thorin with negotiations and our accounts..."  
  
"He's good with numbers, he might as well go with Dwalin. Otherwise, he'd be pestering you all day!"  
  
Balin smiled. Then he straightens up, looking serious. "I have only one request, cousin; give him weaker ales. He smells just like his da did, of that Summer's Delight.. I'm surprised you drink it! It's rather an acquired taste." At this, he looks at him rather sternly.  
   
Óin shifts guiltily. "Well.. I may have taken a sip or two of his before I realised how serious his Fading was. I stopped when he wasn't able to walk any more and started again after he died."  
  
Balin nods understandingly. "Just be careful yourself. You know what our family is like with drink and healers can't turn up for work drunk."  
  
"I know. I try not to drink every evening and when I do, it's only a cup."  
  
"That's wise. You know, if you ever wanted to go to the tavern of an evening, you know when you've not got work the next morning, we'd be glad to have him for the night."  
  
"Ta. Maybe in a month or two, I'll take you up on the offer." Óin looks up at the ceiling, above which is the room in which his brother sleeps. "But for now, I'd rather come home to company."


End file.
